Chapter 1. a Time to be Born
The first time it happens, she doesn't realize what was going on.
The day begins normally enough. She does her initial check in at the Janus Thickey ward to catch up on the progress Neville had mentioned in regards to his parents. A new breakthrough potion using a plant Neville has carefully cultivated with the help of muggle genetic engineering.
She heads towards her own floor when she brushes up against someone. An older wizard who hobbles down seemingly going to the same area she is. She pauses to ask if he needs help at the same time he looks up at her. He grabs hold of her wrist before his raspy voice whispers, "It's time."
She feels the touch of something on her wrist, where his hands wrap around quite easily. His hand is warm and he seems to be in trouble. She is about to cast a diagnostic charm when she notices a commotion at its entrance. "Stay here," she tells him kindly. "I'll be right back."
She steps away, distracted, and pulls her wrist gently from his grip. She runs towards chaos—a habit born from being a war heroine.
She retreats and never sees the wistful look in his old gray eyes as he watches her walk away.
She arrives in time to see the orderlies restrain a very inebriated…Sirius Black?!
What in the world?
Casting a quick patronus to Harry to let him know his godfather was at St Mungo's, she goes up right to Sirius and helps hold him up.
She almost gags at the smell of alcohol in his breath.
What the hell happened last night?
The last she sees Sirius and Harry, they were on the way to Neville's stag party. It is a rare occasion for Sirius to join them in their outings that she remembers making a note to herself to make sure to push Harry to encourage Sirius to go out more.
"I've got him," she tells the three wizards attempting to restrain a deeply haggard Lord Black without hurting him. Feeling her knees bend to give way to the weight that leaned against her, she pushed a hand against Sirius's chest. She takes all his weight from the orderlies.
"Healer Granger, are you certain?" one of them asks, clearly reluctant to leave her with what seems to be a strange and disreputable sort.
"Yes, yes," she says impatiently, her focus solely on the man before her. "Sirius, it's me, Hermione," she says, keeping her voice soft and steady.
She can hear the sharp intake of breath from the orderlies at the mention of Sirius's name. He is infamous in his own right after all.
He slumps against her, almost pushing her to the floor, in his attempts to steady his obviously tilting world. "No, no, no!" his voice is desolate and he shakes his head.
She pulls his face towards her. She doesn't remember Sirius ever being three sheets to the wind. It is disconcerting to find him to be one of those melancholy drunks. "Of course it's me, silly," she admonishes him gently.
Azkaban and the Veil have not been kind to him. The man has practically been a recluse since he was miraculously pulled from the Veil by some ancient magic the Unspeakables refuse to divulge any details about. He refuses to live in a Grimmauld despite Harry and Hermione living there together (platonically!) and, instead purchases a small cottage in a remote area. Admittedly, the cottage is more in line with a country estate and Hermione envies the picturesque location.
She leans back and braces her shoulder against the wall behind her to allow her more leverage to hold him up. He is shaking his head and, despite his precarious balance, takes both his hands to cup her face. "Are you with me, Hermione?" he asks rawly, his voice breaking.
"Of course I am," she answers brightly. "Do you know where you are, Sirius?"
He shakes her off and staggers back, his eyes holding a look of betrayal. "No," he says, and she's not sure if he is answering her question or whether it is a general statement. He waves a finger at her. "You're not," he declares. His shoulder droops. "When are you coming back?" he whispers to himself.
At least she thinks it's to himself.
Another loud commotion down the corridor lets her know that Harry is here. She can tell by both the exclamations of awe and the excited chatter of the staff.
The Boy Who Lived elicits the same response from the wizarding world despite the eight year passage of time since the last battle.
Still, she gives a palpable sigh of relief at the sight of her best friend's worried, and quite sober, face coming towards them. She has to admit that seeing Sirius in this condition makes her wonder at Harry and Ron's as well. There is no way they remained unscathed when Sirius is in this bad of a shape.
"I'm so sorry, Hermione," Harry gasps. "We all got a little carried away last night at the stag party when this wanker proceeded to indulge us with the finest firewhisky."
She rolls her eyes. "Didn't anyone bother to give him a Sober Up potion?"
Harry's grin was sheepish. "We ran out and he volunteered to be the one to suffer until one of us can get some more." He scratches the back of his head. "The next thing we knew, he was gone! We couldn't figure out where he went." He smiles. "Thanks for the patronus, by the way."
"Anytime," she says drolly. "But don't make a habit out of this," she wags her finger at them.
"Yes, Mom," Harry replies seriously, but with a twinkle in his eye.
Beside them, Sirius makes gagging noises.
Hermione rolls her eyes and turns back to Harry. "You got him?"
"Yeah," he assures her. "Go do your rounds! I'll either find him a Sober Up or lock him in his room to sleep this off."
"He's not as young as he used to be, Harry," she makes a teasing dig at Sirius.
Indignant sputtering comes out of Sirius's mouth.
"Go, Hermione," laughed Harry. "We're good here."
She laughs and nods at the two's antics. She turns towards the other side of the hallway when a debilitating headache and a full body chill has her bracing herself against one of the walls.
Minutes passed (or so she thought) before she could trust herself to stand away from the wall. Taking a deep, calming breath, she ran a quick diagnostic charm on herself and found nothing out of the ordinary.
"Odd," she murmured softly, looking up at the suddenly empty corridors. The floor was strangely less chaotic compared to the bustle she was just a part of.
How long had she been leaning against the wall? And where were Harry and Sirius?
Apprehensive, she began to walk down the hallway, not quite having a destination in mind while her thoughts raced.
Did she lose time?
Judging from the windows, it was already night time, but the last thing she remembered was arriving at the hospital for her morning rounds and talking to Harry and Sirius.
"Get the Healer!" she heard someone call out behind her, right before she felt a tug on her arm.
"Come with me!" a matron she didn't recognize demanded, leading her to one of the rooms.
She followed automatically, her desire to help always paramount. Matrons ran St. Mungo's with an iron fist and it wasn't the first time she'd been directed by one despite her Head Healer status.
"What seems to be the problem?" she inquired, putting aside her earlier concerns.
"The patient is beyond irrational," the matron whispered urgently. "I've helped deliver hundreds of babies in my lifetime and I've never seen a mother quite as agitated."
Hermione nodded and encouraged her to continue.
"She's been throwing one curse after another! Both at the staff and her husband," she said in an indignant voice. "Ordering everyone about! It wouldn't be so bad, but those hexes stung." The elderly matron was rubbing her arms. "I think she's either been spelled or has taken a potion. We've been unable to administer a calming draught and are limited as to what spells we can do due to these suspicions."
Hermione followed the matron inside the room and was greeted by utter chaos. Time lapse investigations would have to wait as furniture and curses were flung about every which way. Protégos were erected by various staff members as the witch in bed screamed bloody murder.
"Get it out!" the bedridden witch wailed, her arms flailing as her voice cracked. "Get it out now!" Electricity sparked around her dark hair and her fingertips.
Hermione ducked, narrowly avoiding a chair that flew across the room. She heard the cracking of wood behind her and knew that both the wall and chair splintered upon impact.
She approached the panic-ridden, soon-to-be mother carefully from the side and grasped her arm. Her reflexes were quick—a side effect from the war. Her wand was always ready, blocking stray curses while she tried to capture the mother's eyes with her own to no avail. Choosing to let go of her wand instead of the mother's arm, she used her hand to grab the woman's cheek and force her to look at her.
"Do as I do," she ordered as calmly and yet as insistently as she could given the circumstances.
She began to perform a breathing technique, breathing in through her nose and pushing her breath out through pursed lips. If magic wasn't going to be of help, then muggle methods are in order.
"You can do this," she encouraged, ignoring the chaos surrounding the room and focusing all her efforts in connecting with the woman in front of her. "Breathe with me," she cajoled. "You're strong and your baby will take after your strength." She continued the breathing pattern for what seemed to be forever, barely noticing when the room slowly started to quiet down. When she saw a bit of clarity dawn in her patient's eyes, Hermione moved to put one of hands on the woman's belly. "Push against my hand when you breathe out."
Hermione could feel the contractions against her palm, and timed her breathing appropriately for her patient to follow."Stay with me," she commanded, her voice steady. "Remember what I said," she continued through her breathing, "You are a very strong witch. Your baby will be one too."
She helped deliver the baby without further incident and left mother and child together with the new father in the room while various matrons went about their roles for after the birth. She passed the harried-looking family healer on her way out and gave him a sympathetic look. The couple in the room had that aura of Pureblood entitlement emanating from them as soon as the delivery was done. She could only guess as to what would have kept their private healer from being present during this time, but she could only speculate on the recriminations of negligence that were about to fly.
She paused at the Matrons' station and took account of her surroundings again, her mind going back to the urgent matter of lost time from this morning to this evening.
It was morning when her headache began on this very corridor, and it was evening by the time it stopped. Why didn't anyone inquire after her? She must have made a sight braced against the wall.
"You're new here, aren't you?" a familiar voice called out behind her.
She turned to see the stately matron from before. "I've not seen you before," she reasoned. "My name is Delia Jones."
"I'm Hermione," Hermione began, perplexed. She most certainly was NOT new. "Hermione Granger." She paused, waiting for the dawn of recognition to enter the woman's eyes the way it usually does when she says her name.
"You saved us," Delia continued, taking her name in stride. Hermione was used to these sorts of platitudes. Saving the wizarding world from a genocidal megalomaniac tends to make these statements commonplace.
"Merlin knows what would have happened if you hadn't gotten her to calm down."
Oh.
How humbling.
Not quite the reason she had come to expect.
"The private healers in there are examining both mother and son and are declaring it some sort of divine intervention that not one but both mother and son even survived," the matron continued. "The results are preliminary, but it looks to be that some unnamed potions are coursing through the mother's blood, along with some sort of curse." She paused for breath. "They're saying that even a calming draught would have aggravated it to the point of death," she finished with a shudder.
"That is concerning," Hermione said, her mind racing to various possibilities. Was someone trying to kill the mother? Or the child?
"What was that thing you did," she asked, "with the breathing?"
Hermione looked at her in askance. Surely the matron, as experienced as she is, knew the basics of breathing techniques to help a woman through pregnancy, even if their origins were from a muggle named Lamaze?
"It's the first I've seen it, but it looks like it worked like a charm!"
"It's a muggle technique," Hermione responded slowly.
"Oooooh! Better not let them know then. I'm sure they won't like the irony. I don't know if you knew," Delia continued conspiratorially, "but that was the Lord Orion and Lady Walburga Black, of the most Ancient and Noble House of Black."
What the—
"They just named their son, whose life you saved, Sirius Orion Black III."
She felt another headache come on and a blinding light enveloped her and that was the last thing she remembered before waking up in her very own hospital bed at St Mungo's, with Harry's worried eyes upon her.